


A wine dark sea of longing

by Kaiyo_no_Hime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Levels of Violence, Happy endings are a fairy tale the bard sings, Jaskier suffers for the fandom, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Selkie Jaskier, Torture, post episode 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyo_no_Hime/pseuds/Kaiyo_no_Hime
Summary: After harsh words from Geralt on the mountain after the dragon hunt, Jaskier is done.  He is done with trekking the world, following after a witcher who thinks him nothing but a curse.  So he returns to his home, to the sea, longing for the freedom only the ocean can offer him now.But, to his horror, he discovers his father has taken his pelt, and now holds him captive until he becomes the obedient heir for the tiny sea town he had escaped all those years before.Stubborn and furious, Jaskier can only beat himself against the solid, cold rock of his father's will as there is no one else to save him now.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 240
Kudos: 670





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier stared out over the open ocean, watching he waves froth as they bent their fury upon the rocks below. Summer was waning and the harsh autumn was already looming at the edges of the bloody sky, promising a harsh day of wind and water to follow.

He breathed in the air, holding the salt crusted breeze in for a moment, and let it out again. It was calming. The ocean and the waves and the promise of water from the heavens above. They were what he had, now.

They were all that he had ever had, really. Everything else had been a sweet illusion.

A pretty life to play in, a pretty life to live. But not the truth. No, the truth had been dashed in his face once again back on a mountain two weeks before. He had been told, once again, all that he was was bad luck.

The worst of luck to those around him, those he cared for.

Those he thought would care a little for him.

But the ocean, the ocean was there. The ocean would always be there. Furious and looming, a world beyond worlds. His world.

His home.

The one he could never, truly, leave behind.

He had wanted to share it with Geralt. Show him this little part of himself. A secret he had kept close to his heart for more than two decades. But now he was here, alone, aching as much as the day he had left.

He stumbled as the wind raked against him, and turned and began trudging toward the little village nestled against the edges of the briny, wine dark fury that roared below. There would be an inn, and a few coins, and shelter for the night.

It would be good enough for the night. The morning would bring the storm.

* * *

The inn was nothing more than two rickety tables and chairs that had probably spent more time in the sea then they had on land, but it was warm and out of the wind. The stew was fish, the water was salty, but the villagers were happy to have him.

It had been a long time since a bard had wandered through, and they had spent their years listening to the wind sing for them. There were no rooms for Jaskier that night, there were no rooms in the inn at all the innkeeper admitted with a laugh, a storm had taken the second story nearly a decade back and no one could afford to rebuild it. Besides, no one had bothered to stay for years who couldn’t have another bed in town.

So Jaskier made himself happy in front of the hearth with a small nest of blankets and pillows, and stared out the window at the darkness, listening to the storm as it lashed against the walls. 

He had spent a lifetime staring out into that same, salt drenched darkness. And in the darkness he could feel the call, cooing faintly across the storm. Calling him, forever calling him, home. 

Home away from the land. Away from the painful ache of tired feet and broken hearts. Away from everything that could never be.

Back to the ocean.

Jaskier sat up quietly, unwinding the patched and threadbare blankets from his shoulders, and stretched. Stretched his fingers to his toes, and closed his eyes to listen. He was near, nearer than he had been in years, in decades, and he couldn’t break away from the longing.

He smiled sadly to himself. He hadn’t come here to break away from the longing, but to sink into it and let it wrap around him. There was no need to hide from it any longer.

So Jaskier stood, leaving his lute on the floor and his pack against the wall, and carefully crept into the storm, disappearing into the night like a shadow. The storm tore at him, but he was stronger than wind and rain, and he dashed happily down the cliff toward the shore.

Down the shore he ran, his feet sinking into the waves. His toes were numb in minutes, his body within the hour. But still he continued onward, away from the tiny village, north along the sand until finally he saw the tiny pine halfway up the cliff.

The reckless, beautiful thing that defied the odds and lived and thrived where everything, even the grass, had given up. He shouted and jumped and ran and climbed, his fingers slipping but he didn’t care. Careful movements and long remembered hand holds helped him to his perch.

He dug with pleasure into the little nook of roots.

He could smell his home, remember it, longed for it. 

He frowned, tearing frantically at the dirt and stone, but still nothing but mud came away in his hands. It’s here, he reassured himself, it wasn’t going anywhere. No one had been here, no one was ever here.

A stone stung against his arm, and then another against his thigh.

Jaskier turned, eyes wide, and stared down at the man on the beach.

The man grinning, and holding up a seal skin.

Jaskier’s blood froze, and he swallowed, staring longingly out at the beautiful, angry sea.

* * *

Geralt growls, the hood pulled up carefully over his head as he tries to avoid the eyes of others in the town. It’s easy enough, though his muscles are tight and straining as he hunches and tries to make himself look smaller than he is.

No town is safe for witchers, but the price Nilfgaard has put on his head has made people’s hatred greedy. White hair and yellow eyes are dangerous things to have right now.

But Roach has thrown a shoe, and her needs trump his. 

He’s merely glad he had the forethought to entrust Ciri with Eskel on the trek north back to Kaer Morhen. The girl had not wanted to be parted, but it was unavoidable. He needed to seed a false trail south, away from their safety, before he risked joining her back north.

He pulled his cloak closer, his shoulders throbbing, and grit his teeth.

He had paid three times the asking price, and still had had to wait two days for the work to be finished. But he couldn’t threaten the man, and there was no other way. He shivered as people bumped around him in the market, their very touch screaming against his senses.

There were guard in black, bored but armed, lingering in sight.

Nilfgaard was here. No one was safe. 

A flash to the side caught his eye, and he glanced up, freezing at the sight.

A junk shop, full to the brim with the precious memories of desperate people fleeing north. And there, in the window, dusty and silent in a way he could never imagine, lay a lute.

Jaskier’s lute.

Scratched and worn, well cared for and well traveled. Geralt knew every scar across the wood like his own body. He had watched Jaskier caress that little piece of gilded wood like a favored lover, had fallen asleep listening to the bard croon dainty melodies to the stars.

Jaskier would have never have parted with the beautiful piece of Elven craft, not willingly.

His hand was on the door knob before he could think, and he was inside the shop. 

“No buying, only selling,” a man shouted from the back.

Geralt grabbed the lute and quietly stepped toward the unseen voice. 

He was still hiding, he reminded himself. He was still not a witcher, not until he had Roach and was safely away.

He ignored the tiny thought of what if Jaskier had not had the same luxury to be safely away. What if the lute was just the spoils of an unfortunate end he had not been able to protect the other man from.

He ignored the voice, reminding himself that Jaskier had been walking dreary roads alone long before he had met him.

“Ah, the lovely little lute,” the shopkeeper said, looking up with a smile.

“Who sold it,” Geralt demanded.

The shopkeeper blinked and looked up curiously. Geralt glared down at him. 

“Ah, let me see,” he bustled nervously, grabbing a book and turning pages, his fingers running down a precise ledger, “Lute, fair condition, a fisherman.”

Geralt continued to glare.

“That’s all I know, three gold coins.”

“Where did the fisherman come from?” Geralt demanded.

“I don’t know,” the shopkeeper answered meekly, “I don’t take their life stories, just the basic inventory.”

Geralt grunted, staring down at the instrument in his hand.

He had looked for the bard, briefly, after their parting on the mountain. He had listened for him in inns, but nothing but others butchering his music had been there. He had mentioned the sea, he remembered. Had he become a fisherman?

Geralt couldn’t imagine it, but it was a trail away from Kaer Morhen. 

And he missed the other man. He felt guilty for their parting. He was… Jaskier was his friend, and it was dangerous to be his friend right now. Worse than angry husbands could be riding his way if he wasn’t careful.

Geralt dropped coins on the desk and stormed out of the shop with the lute. The least he could do was return it as an apology for angry words. He had never been good with words, but hopefully his actions could speak for him this once.

He sped his pace as he neared the blacksmith, feeling eyes beginning to turn toward him. People were drifting away now. The fucking shopkeeper hadn’t even bothered to wait until he was out of sight before collecting on the reward.

“My horse,” Geralt growled, and the blacksmith nodded toward the stall.

Geralt nodded, patting Roach gently on the side before mounting and riding, ignoring the shouts as people leapt from his path.

Westward he road, toward the ocean.

Westward, toward his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Not sure if I'll be able to maintain a daily posting schedule this time, but I'll try. And, as usual with my works, a warning to all that I tend not to do happy endings. It just doesn't work well when I try.
> 
> I did bake these amazing strawberry turnovers though. So everyone is welcome to some of those. Stay safe out there, wash your hands, wear masks, and stay at home if you can! You have fanfiction, indulge freely while we all weather the storm that 2020 is turning out to be!


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier shivered as the man bound his wrists, rain dripping down his face and obscuring his vision. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be _free_! He had taken such care to hide his pelt so carefully, to tuck it away where no one would find it, safe until his return. Safe until his curiosity was sated.

He winced as the rope bit into his wrist, flexing his fingers and trying to figure out if they were numb from the ropes or the rain. It was impossible to tell in this storm.

“How,” Jaskier rasped, staring at the other man.

How had he known!?

“Your father,” the man said with a grin, “Good price on you. Good enough to do a little hunting.”

Jaskier paled, shivering and curling inward.

His father. He thought he had left that life behind him when he had run away to become a bard. Had been so sure he would be disowned the instant he stood in an inn and began belting out his first tunes just to scrounge enough to eat for the night. 

His father had been so clear when he had said no son of his would ever be a _minstrel_.

A traveling bard must be twice the disgrace. More than enough to disown a son for. Surely whomever his younger sister chose would be worthy of the family lands and coffers. He certainly wanted no part in them.

No more than his mother had the day she had found her pelt and run back home to the sea as well.

“Bring you back,” the man tugged on the rope and Jaskier stumbled forward, “Get me a few pretty coins and some land.”

“Please,” Jaskier begged, “I don’t belong there. Just let me go, let me go home.”

“You daft or something,” the man asked with a raised eyebrow, “That’s where I’m taking you.”

Jaskier sobbed as he was yanked forward, obediently following the man up the ribbon thin path up the cliff face that hadn’t been there twenty years before. 

He trailed behind the horse, stumbling as the man rode without care, catching himself and half being dragged through the mud. He couldn’t escape. Not now. The man had his pelt, and he was bound to him until the pelt came to another. Or himself.

He should have followed his mother the day he found his own little pelt. Should have grabbed it and swam away from all of this. To the ocean, where he could listen to the waves sing and the wind keep careful tune.

* * *

Geralt growled as the innkeeper merely shrugged his shoulders at the lute in his hands. It was the fifth village he had found himself in, his coin dwindling, and still nothing. A few comments about a bard passing through, but silence on his whereabouts. Whoever it was had left a few jaunty tunes stuck in their heads for a while, but that was it.

No one kept careful track of traveling bards. They all claimed to be world famous. They all dressed like prancing rainbows. They all entertained for room and board.

Geralt nodded his thanks, and turned to leave. It was barely midday, and, if luck was at his side, he could be at the next tiny salt village by sundown. 

At least he would have a roof and warm food that he hadn’t caught himself. Even Roach would appreciate a few solid walls to shelter her from the autumn winds. The ocean breeze would cool inland, but it was chilling to bone so close to their source. He would not want to face a winter traveling near here.

He did not want to think of Jaskier, in his thin silks and stubborn pride, trying to make his way from inn to inn to survive. The weather was harsh, and the bard wouldn’t survive a winter of this. Even witchers were smart enough to hide away from the world when the fucking weather turned to this shit.

“Next village,” Geralt promised Roach as he mounted and leaned forward, the thick wool of his cloak barely holding back the worst of the frosty bite.

Roach snorted, but made her way out of the village without complaint. She was a good horse, and he swore that, when this was over, there would be rub downs and apples aplenty for her to munch and soothe on.

But for now all he had to offer was steady eyes on the trail ahead, and the hope that the next village would at least have a stable. And news. 

At this point he would welcome any news.

* * *

As evening began to fall Geralt saw the tiny lights of a few scattered homes and sighed with relief. 

A village ‘a few hours north’ had come to mean anything to him. A day. Two days. Everyone judged travel times by ship, not horse. He was weather beaten, salt encrusted, and more than slightly sure Roach would refuse to let him ride her again after the last week.

Jaskier would have his head for treating her so, he always had a soft spot for the horse. Had often joked that he should have sung ballads in her honor instead of his, given that she was the one hauling his ass around.

Geralt winced at the thought of it. 

He had never asked to be sung about. Had certainly never asked for the bard to sing ballads _in his honor_.

But Jaskier had been happy, and the extra coin had been welcome. Far more welcome than the coin he brought in and watched tumble back through his fingers, wasted on watery ale and over priced potion ingredients.

No, the bard had done his best.

Now he had to do his best by him. He thanked the gods that he hadn’t seen a single soldier in any of the villages, all too small to even be noticed by Nilfgaard. No money, and certainly no warriors to stand against the wave of armies that were still trekking north.

The rumors still traveled faster than him. 

He grunted as he noticed the tiny inn had no stables. He would shelter with Roach before he stopped low enough to take a warm bed before she had one. 

The room, tiny and warm, held to sparse tables and a worn chair. Geralt looked at the innkeeper, nostrils flaring as the stench of fear drowned the smell of fish and salt.

At least the answers would be truthful and quick this time.

“I’m looking for a bard,” Geralt growled, “This was his lute.”

The innkeeper, still quaking, glanced down at the lute and went white, his eyes wide and beads of sweat beading on his face. Geralt leaned closer, his canines glinting as he pulled his lips back in a snarl.

“Where is he,” Geralt demanded, his voice low and promising violence.

The man swallowed, but shook his head.

“Not here no more,” he said, his voice quavering, “Gave him shelter from the storm two weeks back, but he...”

“But he what,” Geralt growled.

“He went out into it. Left everything, old May said she saw him slipping north along the beach. No one else out in the storm. That’s the last we saw of him, promise!”

Geralt growled, glancing outside into the night.

“Why,” Geralt asked, turning back to the innkeeper.

“Don’t know,” the innkeeper swore, “Gave him a warm bed in front of the fire, good food. He gave us good music, hoped to have him around a few days!”

Geralt nodded, turning away and stalking back outside. The man had spoken the truth. Whatever Jaskier had done, whatever trouble he had gotten himself into, he had done it on his own without any help from others.

“I’m sorry girl,” Geralt whispered, leaning against Roach’s side, “He went north, along the beach.”

Roach whinnied, and sighed, and Geralt could only agree. They were so close. 

But they needed to stop for the night. Roach couldn’t keep going like this, she needed her rest he told himself. Jaskier wouldn’t forgive him if anything happened to the horse.

He turned away, and led her to the outskirts of the village, barely a few steps, and made a careful camp between two dunes, hoping that it would at least cut the worst of the wind for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because, really, Roach is the best, and none of us would ever forgive Geralt if anything happened to her.
> 
> Also, I made strawberry cream cheese pastries. Like 30 of them. My husband gave me a raised eyebrow at that. I don't think he realized how important I find having a pastry every morning. My sweet tooth will not be contained. (and, given how expensive pastries in Japan are, it really was cheaper for me to just make a giant batch)
> 
> Stay safe and stay home everyone. And, for those of you who are essential workers, stay safe and I hope you have all the PPE you need! Thank you all for your hard work, even those of us who are trying to stay home and watching every cooking show we can find. Because it's better than going outside right now.
> 
> Although, really, I live in Japan and none of the schools in my area even delayed opening, so I'm really worried about that every time I bike to the grocery store and all the little children are falling all over each other on the playground. Not the best sight in the world right now, I'll tell you.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier, crusted in mud and salt and tears, stumbled behind the horse through Lettenhove. The people turned away as he passed, their faces hidden behind hoods and caps, their clothes the same washed out gray and drab, muddy brown that he remembered.

It was not a place where poetry flourished. Not under the hard fist of his father.

It was not a place where anything flourished.

Jaskier stumbled, falling to his knees in the mud, exhausted. The man on the horse laughed, tugging the rope and sending Jaskier falling face first into the muck.

Jaskier groaned, spluttering and spitting the filth from his mouth as he glared up at the man. If he had just had his knife. Just had _anything_ , he could have beaten him. Taken his pelt and escaped, and never remember this fading city again.

“Up, your royalness,” the man spat, and Jaskier continued to glare as the warm glob slid down his hair.

He rose to his feet, his knees aching and his wrists burning. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to even remember ever being here before. He didn’t want to remember that he was born and raised here.

But he was damned if he was going to return, quaking and sobbing like a little child in front of his father. He had traveled the world with a witcher, had survived djinn and dragons and a particularly mad sorceress, not to mention enough angry husbands and wives to fill a court with gossip for the next hundred years.

He may be covered with mud and shit and spit, but he was still a better man than his father could ever hope to be. And he was damned if he was going to forget that now.

So he stood, and he continued to stumble along behind the man, ignored by all those who he passed. A fleeting glance of pity was the only recognition he received.

Fuck Lettenhove.

* * *

The spires of the keep were not crumbling into the ocean below, but it was a near thing. With every whistle of the wind Jaskier could hear the stone stretching a little too far. One day, hopefully soon, it would be too much and there would be no more of the terrible monolith the shadowed the nearby lands. 

The guards’ stare is chilly, and even his captor dismounts and pauses before continuing across the bridge that segregates the land from have and have not. The stones are frozen beneath his boots, and he keeps his gaze ahead.

He knows the hatred in those eyes. 

He saw it in his father’s often enough growing up. Even his mother couldn’t protect him from that. Not after the first time he had declared his love of song.

Did they all think of him and her as the same? Like mother like son, both running away from everything their rich life offered?

He didn’t care. He had other worries. Deadlier worries.

How angry was his father?

To have put a bounty on his head, to part willingly with money, already showed his fury more than his sharp words ever could. What his father owned his father kept, and he had made that very clear his entire childhood.

A chill breeze gusts through the grand hallway where they are kept waiting. The fine tapestries on the walls, the velvet flags with the family’s coat of arms, all rustle. They are not threadbare, but there is a smokey sheen to the fabric that Jaskier can only attribute to the sooty candles. Poor quality light to hide what else may be lingering.

Mud drips onto the floor, and still they wait.

Two hours later, Jaskier’s feet numb, and finally the guards straighten. His father is a lean man, dried and hard from the salt and wind of the kingdom. His hair white and wild, his eyes the furious blue that Jaskier had the misfortune to share.

“He lives,” his father says, the voice echoing across the stones.

With a nod a coin purse is thrust into his captor’s hands, and the man is gone just as fast, the pelt thrust hastily into his father’s steel grip. His father glares at him, and Jaskier meets his glare.

He has crossed these blades before. 

“You smell of pig shit,” his father notes.

“Your mud is made of it,” Jaskier spits back.

The slap echoes, and Jaskier bites his teeth, spitting blood on his father’s shoes. His father smirks.

“Glad to see the world finally taught you to stand straight and take a hit,” he says, “Made a man out of you.”

Jaskier didn’t humor him with a response. That’s what he wants, he wants to make him snap and growl and bite, and then have the guards beat him for his insolence. Wants to use every excuse he can to show him that he is _more_ , and Jaskier is, as always, less.

“How’s Lillian,” Jaskier asks, noting the absence of his sister. 

A sweet, cruel, thorn bearing flower. He loved her as much as he loathed her, and everything their father had twisted her into. He should have grabbed her by the claws and dragged her out into the world with him. Shown her kindness and sunny days of peace.

They should have run away after their mother, and left this world behind before it broke them both.

“Dead,” his father sighs, “And the child with her. You’re my heir now, distasteful as it may be.”

Jaskier took a deep breath. His sister, adorable and angry and proud. Chestnut curls and a sharp wit, always fighting with him during the day, and then curling up with him as the moon rose and trying not to cry from the loneliness that carved into them both after mother left.

His sweet, fierce Lily. 

He picked the little golden flowers in the far meadows and brought them just for her as a child, braided them into her hair and they both swore to be better than this when their time to rule came. Better than all of this. 

Better than him.

Jaskier spat blood on his father face and grinned as it dripped down his cheek.

“Throw him in his room,” his father waved his hand carelessly, “Let the night mellow him.”

His father watched, his frown deep, as he ran his hands across the pelt in his hands. Jaskier growled, stomping the familiar path up the spire to his cold, lonely childhood prison. He could almost feel the ragged fingers of his father’s spidery fingers drifting across his skin.

The door slammed, and the bolt slide fast. He turned and looked out at the ocean beating against the cliff face below with the steady beat of his anger.

* * *

Geralt followed the beach as the hazy gold of dawn lingered on the horizon. The ocean to his left, the sheer rock face to his right. And the beach stretched empty and barren before him.

What had Jaskier been doing here? Why had he run here, and why had he left everything he owned and treasured behind?

Had Nilfgaard found him in the night, and he had fled?

No, the villagers would have noticed even a single soldier, and there was no sign of a struggle. There was no sign of anything but sand and salt and the refuse of the sea.

Roach shoved him, and Geralt sighed and patted her neck. She didn’t like this anymore than he. The sinking feeling every footfall brought, the struggle to go forward as the sand sucked him down. The freezing water that managed to find its way into even his boots.

Distantly he could make out a lone tree huddled against the cliff side. He paid it no thought until he saw the scrap of silk, so familiar he could almost taste the memory, wavering in the wind.

Jaskier had been here. 

He ran forward, throwing himself at the stones and scaling up to the tree. Mud raked against roots, hurriedly with hands. He had been searching for something, desperate, and then…

Whatever he had been looking for, had he found it? There were no tracks in the sand, easily washed away in the wind and surf, but he glanced up and saw the small trail. Rocks were disturbed, and grass crushed.

He had gone that way. And he hadn’t been alone.

Geralt dropped and whistled for Roach. Finally, they had a trail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: *glares and and is all stoic*
> 
> Jaskier's dad: *glares and is an asshole*
> 
> Geralt: ... I did not fucking him teach him that.
> 
> Roach: *smacks Geralt upside the head*
> 
> And this, dear readers, is why family drama is frought with... glaring. So wash your hands, wear your masks, stay home, and stay safe! And also enjoy these lovely banana nut muffins with fresh honey butter. Because I have like fifty because I used some sort of super recipe. And now have *munch munch* way too many. There's like thirty here *munch munch*! What am I going to do with ten muffins!?


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier grunted, dragging the ropes across the knife carefully held between his knees one last time, and sighed in relief as the last thread snapped. A few quick shakes and he was massaging his wrists, frowning at the blood and bruises. 

It would take weeks for the damn things to heal. Although he counted his blessings that his father had thrown him in his old rooms instead of the dungeon. He could have lost his hands to gangrene rotting alone in the dark down there.

The pompous pleasures of being a spoiled heir, he snorted to himself. Everything he never wanted in life.

Except the music lessons as a child. Those had been fantastic.

He flexed his fingers carefully, working blood flow back and gritting his teeth as the pins and needles turned to burning. But burning meant they were still there, so he patiently waited it out, staring out the window at the sea.

The sea. 

He had grown up, towering over it. His mother had taught him to swim down in the tide pools, and then the ocean itself. She had told him fairy tales of all the wonders that the walking world never saw, of giant coral palaces and deep lurking monsters in waters where the light had never touched. Of far away coast where the ice never faded, and of rivers in the ocean that teemed with more fish than he could imagine.

The ocean had been everything to his mother, she had longed for it. Had shared that longing with him, and his sister. 

Jaskier stood, pressing his face against the glass and staring downward to where the waves ate the rocks that kept his father’s icy fortress standing.

She had told him, quietly in the night, under blankets with no light, soft stories of people who could turn into seals. Of how they, the selkie, must guard their seal pelts with care, for a human that held their pelt had control over them.

She didn’t need to tell more than that, Jaskier had seen it in her eyes. Seen the longing, and a love stronger than any for her children.

She had been gone the instant she found hers, slipping away without a single goodbye.

Escaped. Alone. 

Without them.

“Should have fucking waited,” Jaskier rasped, still staring down as the cold pane began to numb his forehead.

She couldn’t have waited, he knew now. There was no waiting or escaping this longing.

The bolt slid on his door, and Jaskier turned toward it. He held his knife carefully, his stance guarded. His father was strong, but he was old. A quick blade would free the world of him, and he could find his pelt and escape after.

But it wasn’t his father at the door, just a young serving maid. Her eyes went wide as she saw the knife, and Jaskier smiled apologetically, setting it on the windowsill, showing his hands in apology. The girl would be easily overpowered, but she was innocent in all of this.

And the plate she held, steaming with tasty food, was a sight for sore eyes.

At least his father wasn’t going to try to starve him into obedience.

“I’m sorry, really,” Jaskier said, trying to be a little bit charming.

But, under the muck and in old, rain drenched clothes, he must have looked rather piteous instead.

“I’ll have a bath brought up for you, m’lord,” the girl curtsied and scuttled quickly from the room.

Jaskier just shrugged his shoulders as the bolt slammed shut, and slid into the chair to enjoy his meal. Hot bread, good beef, and stewed vegetables. Not high class fair, certainly nothing to rival many of the hall he had played in, but better than he had been eaten in weeks. And certainly better than he and Geralt had enjoyed during their time together.

His heart froze a little at that. Where was his witcher now? Had he managed to find his child surprise? 

Was he still safe?

He growled, taking a chunk out of the bread and glaring down at his food. He wanted to curse the white haired witcher for spoiling his first decent meal in weeks, but he couldn’t. His heart still cracked to think of him, to remember everything the other man had thrown away back on the mountain.

And now he had his wish, no matter what happened, Jaskier would never haunt him again forever.

* * *

Geralt studied the horse tracks and tightened his fists in rage. He could see the clear marks of someone following along beside, _stumbling_ along beside the horse. Jaskier, without a doubt. He had seen those footsteps for nearly two decades, the mark of the same boot style that Jaskier preferred, no matter how impractical Geralt told him it was.

Whatever trouble his bard had gotten himself into this time, it was clear he needed help. The trail was straight enough, winding across the scrub, broken grass clearly showing their passage. And then onto an old, nearly forgotten path. And finally toward a city.

Lettenhove. One of the coastal towns that had gained infamy from raiding other kingdoms until they united and became a kingdom of their own. Geralt had never traveled this close to the ocean, a witcher’s abilities offered no help under the cruel waves of the ocean, but he recognized the name. He remembered Jaskier mentioning it once or twice.

Had the fool bedded some sea lords wife? It would explain why he had gone out onto the beach alone during the storm. Only Jaskier would find meeting up with a woman in that weather _romantic_.

Geralt growled to himself. He had feared for his friend, but of course the fool had merely managed to stumble upon another river of trouble because he couldn’t keep his cock in his pants. He should let him to his punishment, but there was no telling if the sea lord would be happy with just a few weeks in a dank prison. 

He wouldn’t wish the tortures of Nilfgaard on anyone.

He dismounted as he approached the outskirts of the city, twilight fading toward night, and looked for the nearest inn. The people on the street cast their eyes to the side, a trembling fear rank in the air over the scent of pig shit and mud. Geralt paid it no mind, everyone feared a witcher.

Nearly everyone, that was.

Jaskier, the fool, never had.

The inn was gray and as weather beaten as the townsfolk. He didn’t bother to try to hide himself as he stalked up to the bar, slamming coin down. He was tired, thirsty, and he needed information.

Fuck Nilfgaard if they were here. He had two swords that were good enough for them as any monster.

“Ale,” Geralt grunted, “And information.”

The pint tasted of lemon and salt, and Geralt made a face but quaffed it still the same. At least this one didn’t taste of piss. 

“You seen a bard,” Geralt asked, the innkeeper still trembling as Geralt lowered his mug.

The man shook his head, his eyes darting around nervously. Geralt glared harder, leaning forward. He knew something, and he would be telling Geralt.

“Brown hair, blue silks, red lining. Didn’t have a lute,” Geralt said, kicking himself mentally.

Jaskier was dragged here, he wouldn’t have been a bard. He would have been a prisoner.

“Hands bound, following a horse.”

The innkeeper went white, and the chatter in the room stilled. Geralt glanced around, and everyone made themselves busy not looking back at him. A few slipped out the door, nervously. Geralt’s nostrils flared as he turned back toward the innkeeper, his hand flexing.

“The, the, the viscount’s son,” the innkeeper stammered, “Hauled before the viscount a few days back. Hasn’t been seen since.”

Geralt blinked at that. He knew Jaskier had to have been raised near nobility, he certainly was far too familiar with the court otherwise. But he had never imagined that he was high ranking nobility himself. 

Cross being hauled in for fucking a sea lord’s wife off the list then. His _father_ had had him hauled through the streets, bound and stumbling like a common criminal?

Geralt’s fist tightened. He would be having words with the man, and retrieving his bard.

“A room,” Geralt said, dropping more coins on the counter, “Boarding for my horse.”

The innkeeper nodded, collecting the coins and motioning for a boy in the back to see to Roach. Geralt sighed, looking at the huddled, silent figures in the room.

How had a place like this ever produced a man as colorful as Jaskier?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: *points at the area* Explain.
> 
> Jaskier: they're people. They do people things.
> 
> Geralt: ... they're gray.
> 
> Jaskier: It's the gray time of year. 
> 
> Geralt: ...
> 
> Jaskier: Well, yes, next season is the gray time too. And the season after that. And the season after that. It's always the gray time of the year. Except during some of the sea holidays. Then it's the black time of year.
> 
> Geralt: *rubs the bridge of his nose*
> 
> Jaskier: So, you see, I have quite a lot of not gray times of the year to make up for. And, really, you do too. Here, let's see if we can get you something other than black to wear...
> 
> Geralt: *goes to storm another castle*


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier poured the little pot of honey on his oatmeal, ignoring the pickled fish, and munched on it thoughtfully as he continued to stare out the window. Sitting he could see little more than the horizon, the waves weaving into a tapestry of blues against the pale gold of dawn.

He could have killed for a pot of tea, the chill of the morning sinking through his bones, but all he had was the food and a mug of crisp, cool water. At least it wasn’t salty. Most of the wells in the area were brackish at the best of times.

Stiff wools and stiff walls, but there were worse lots to be had in life.

The bolt slid open and Jaskier turned toward the door curiously. They usually didn’t come to collect the plates until the next meal.

But, instead of the silent serving maid there were two armed guards, glaring. Jaskier sighed, taking a last bite of his breakfast before standing. This was inevitable, he supposed. His father must have had a change of mind about his luxurious residence.

It wouldn’t be the first time he found himself sheltering in the more frigid areas of the castle.

“Take me wither you will,” Jaskier declared, standing with a flourish.

They could take everything from him, leave him stripped and bare and rotting in the ground, but he would be damned if they took his charm. He’d drag that with him to the hangman’s noose if need be. Though, given his father’s comments, he needed an obedient heir more than another slashed name on the family tree.

The guards said not a word as they led him through the twisting, cracked hallways toward his father’s study.

Jaskier could still hear his father’s cold words as he dealt out cruel punishments in years past. Lashes for skipping lessons. Missed meals for disobedience. The cells for singing. The cells, naked, for stealing. His first lute, more cracked driftwood than an actual instrument, had been so easy to lift. And so easy to find.

And he would do it all over again in an instant.

His father was seated at his desk, papers carefully piled around him, and merely waved a hand as he studied the tiny scrawl on the paper. Jaskier stood, waiting, his eyes resisting the urge to glance out the window. That’s what his father wanted, to see him longing for the ocean. Pining for the home that should be his.

He wouldn’t give the old bastard the pleasure.

Instead he let his eyes traipse across the papers, ledgers and stock. A few notes on trading issues along the coast.

Nilfgaard might not have overtaken the coastal settlements this far north, but their fist was being felt. They would not trade with any not aligned with the empire, and their forces would not allow for the raiding that softened hard times. Lettenhove was feeling the pinch and was unable to do anything to stop it.

Jaskier would have hoped that it would prove ruinous for his father, but he knew the people would suffer long before the old bastard ever saw an empty plate.

“You were south,” his father said, not looking up from his work.

Jaskier didn’t bother to answer. They both knew he had been, had seen more of the world than his father could dream. Knew more of current events than the sailors and captains gossiped about in the taverns.

Jaskier watched his father’s hand tighten and then relax. Good, he was angry. Jaskier might not be able to control his own life, but he could control this. He could still make his father angry. As long as his life was worth something to the old man, he still had the upper hand.

“Tell me of Nilfgaard,” his father looked up, his eyes stony as they met.

Jaskier blinked and glanced away. Fuck, he still felt like a child about to get a beating standing here in the study. He most likely would get a beating just for meeting his eyes in the first place.

“They’re riding north, their army a tsunami crashing across the lands, washing away all hope of resistance. They trade with no one but themselves. They barter with no one but themselves. They give quarter to no one but themselves.

“Their army is a fire set upon the continent, burning the land to the roots with every step they take.”

His father snorted and Jaskier bit back a grin.

Flowery language was his to command, and his father scorned every scrap of it.

“They can’t take the coastal cities,” he snapped.

And it was most likely true. Nilfgaard had a tendency to burn cities to the ground as they conquered, and to destroy the ports would be madness. They would need the supply routes if they were to continue north.

But that was no help to anyone in those cities if they starved instead of burned.

His father returned to the ledger, and Jaskier continued to stand. As time continued on, he gave in and let his eyes drift toward the window. He could hear the ocean calling to him, beating out his name against the rocks. Whispering his name, promising him safety beneath the waves.

His world exploded in pain as he fell to the floor. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose, and he coughed, spitting on the carpet.

His father was standing over him, a cruel smile stretching across his face. He should have been stronger, should have found something else to tirelessly observe. He should have never let the sea sweet call trap him like that so close to his father.

He should have remembered to never let his guard down near the old man. He was strong enough to break bones and bend wills yet.

“You’re mine,” he growled, looming over Jaskier like an ancient god, “Just like your mother. Mine and mine alone.”

“She’s not yours anymore,” Jaskier snapped, challenging him from the floor.

The grin widened, and the boot came down hard on his hands. Jaskier screamed as his father ground down, and he could feel tears coming to his eyes. Not his hand, his left hand, his fingering hand. 

How much could his father take from him!?

His father leaned down, his voice an icy whisper as he took pleasure in Jaskier’s whimpering howls.

“She left you behind, just like the whole world.”

Jaskier resisted the urge to nod. It wasn’t true. She had escaped, but she didn’t know where her childrens’ pelts were. It was the only reason they had been left.

It had to be.

“Guards,” his father called, straightening and looking toward the door, “He’s rolled around in furs long enough. Throw him back in his old quarters below.”

Jaskier was yanked to his feet, his hand throbbing, and followed the guards miserably toward the old dungeon cells.

* * *

Geralt was in the stables, rubbing down Roach and letting her enjoy a breakfast she hadn’t had to forage, when the child approached him. He had hear the tiny, hesitant footsteps, but ignored them in favor of spoiling his horse a little.

He was used to children coming to gawk at him, the White Wolf. They didn’t fear him, not like the adults did. They were curious, and in awe. The one they heard stories about, and songs, was actually real.

Jaskier had always lured them in with a few little stories and a ditty or to, leaving them with stars in their eyes, running to tell their friends.

Geralt was content to simply let the child watch.

“Please don’t,” the little boy whispered, finally bringing up enough nerve to find his voice.

Geralt just grunted.

“I know he’s a fin folk monster, like the stories mam tells, but please don’t kill him,” the child continued, his eyes wide and watery as he stared up at Geralt, continuing to edge closer, “He’s nice, so much nicer than the lord. He gave me an apple once.”

The child was clutching at Geralt’s trousers now, tears in his eyes.

Geralt stopped grooming Roach to stare down at the child.

“Who,” he asked, trying to keep his voice to a soft grumble.

“The lord’s son, Julian,” the little boy whispered, his voice failing him under Geralt’s gaze.

“He’s not a monster,” Geralt said, turning and going back to caring for Roach.

The little boy was quavering, but Geralt could smell the fear rising in him. Fear for Jaskier’s life, not of himself for once. Geralt sighed, his hands pausing.

“I’m not here to kill him,” Geralt finally said, “Just have words with the viscount. I promise.”

“Thank you,” the little boy hugged his leg and then dashed from the stables.

Jaskier was fin folk? He had seen the bard around water numerous times, and never once had he ever been drawn to it. He had complained loudly about the muddy quality of many marshes and streams, and would not set foot in some of them.

He couldn’t even name more than a handful of damned fish.

“What has he gotten himself into now, girl,” Geralt muttered, burying his face in Roach’s neck and breathing in the deep, familiar scent.

He should have never let that fool wander off the mountain alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: ... you're a mermaid?
> 
> Jaskier: *offended noises* I beg your pardon!?
> 
> Geralt: Has fins, lives in the sea...
> 
> Jaskier: Do I look like I have a damn tail!?
> 
> Geralt: *pokes Jaskier's legs with a stick*
> 
> Jaskier: Stop that... it's rude!
> 
> *Geralt shrugs*
> 
> Geralt: ... so...
> 
> Jaskier: No, I do not run around giving people coffee either!


	6. Chapter 6

Jaskier shivered, curled up against a corner, trying to shelter from the wind that came howling in through the gaping maw of a window. The surf carried through, drenching him and the rocks, leaving them all miserable and frozen.

He had clawed away at the old stones until he had found his old stash, but the blanket had gone to rot in the passing years, and he was now left with just the wools he had been tossed in wearing. They clung to him in his misery, failing to keep him dry or warm.

He could distantly remember his childhood down here, remember listening for the whispers of Lily’s footsteps as she brought him another blanket, or a few morsels of food. He had gotten into trouble for her so many times, and she had always been there to return the favor.

Now he just had the frosty chill to remember her by.

The guard’s footsteps echoed to a stop outside his door, but Jaskier pressed his eyes closed and ignored them. The last three meals had been piss and salt bread. He was just as happy to toss another such luxury from the window before he gave in to thirst or hunger. He still had another day or two before he became desperate. 

The wind twisted around the cell and Jaskier listed to it coo invitingly.

There was an easier way to freedom.

The bolt on the door slid free.

Jaskier wasn’t that desperate yet.

“Your father requests the honor of your presence,” the guard said stiffly.

Jaskier snorted. His father did many things, but request was never one of them. 

“I’m afraid,” Jaskier rolled onto his feet and stood, shivering and drenched, “That I must decline at this time. For, you see, I am quite busy with my duties these days and simply haven’t a moment to spare. Maybe the next week, after my opera is complete.”

Jaskier caved around the fist as it met his stomach, groaning. He was glad he had nothing to bring up but a watery bile, the smell of vomit washed across the floor would have been beyond the damp torture he had already endured.

“It was not a request,” the guard snapped.

Jaskier groaned as a mirthful laugh tried to shake his belly and sent agony rippling through his middle. 

Of course it wasn’t a request. His response had never been a refusal. But his body was a punching bag, and his mouth had always made him a fond target. At least they didn’t hit as hard as Geralt ever had.

“Then I suddenly find myself free to attend his lordly presence,” Jaskier coughed, trying to straighten without agony lancing across his face.

From the guard’s smirk, he had failed.

He limped behind him, a second guard following, trying to ensure he didn’t suddenly make himself scarce he was sure, and wound upward back toward his father’s study. 

At least it was drier, and the wind merely howled on the other side of stone walls. He doubted it would help, but he wanted to think he could dry a little before he was tossed back and let to rot into obedience a little while longer.

* * *

There was a fire lit on the grate, warming the room and keeping the damp at bay, and Jaskier was happy to stand and take full advantage of it as he stared at the books and scrolls that were piled along the shelves of the room. He was careful to keep his eyes away from the window this time, away from the pleading voice that echoed from the waters below.

He would find his way to it, soon, he promised. One way or another. 

But, no matter how his graze traveled across the room, no matter how he searched, he could find no sign of his pelt.

He wasn’t surprised, his father wasn’t a fool. He had managed to keep mother’s pelt hidden for nearly twenty years, and his own for over a decade. And, he thought sadly, his sister’s for her entire life. Had she been given it in death, at least? Had he granted her that one kindness, to be made whole in death as she had never been in life?

He hoped so. He begged it to be so with all his soul.

His left side was warming, finally drying, and he wished that he could turn to warm his right. But he had learned very young to never turn his back on his father. He should never turn his back on anything that is waiting to consume him whole.

“You’re not usually this quiet,” his father commented, not looking up from his books.

“It seems the world taught me a modicum of manners,” Jaskier replied flippantly.

His father grunted at that, taking a long, deep drink from the mug of water at his side.

The water was the deep, clear beauty that could be found in tiny springs across the countryside. Gentle, bubbling brooks that told laughing stories of times long gone and splendid, refreshing summers to come. As sound and quenching a drink as any that had been granted by even the gods themselves.

Jaskier could feel his mouth watering for a single sip, anything to rinse away the salt that crusted his mouth and body. Anything to wash away the memories of the cold cell, where he had rotted away half his disobedient childhood, and seemed doomed to rot away whatever years he had left.

Not many if he spent them shaking and sucking on the very stones for a single drop that hadn’t crystallized.

“I was tempted to have you thrown back in your own chambers,” his father drawled, finally glancing up to eye his son.

Jaskier held back a snort at that. No he wasn’t. His father never half broke a person, he slammed his fist down until they were his. And if it took a few lashings to get his desired response then so be it, nothing had ever stopped him before. 

“But I see you’re still a willful little beast,” Jaskier grinned at that.

His father’s gaze darkened, but he did not rise to his feet. Jaskier could take his insults, could shrug off his biting comments, but he did not want to risk another injury. His left hand still throbbed, and he doubted he could attempt any escape until he had full motion back in his fingers.

“No disagreements,” his father raised an eyebrow, “As a child you were quite adamant that you were nothing of the sort.”

“Give me my pelt and I’ll happily prove my younger self wrong,” Jaskier bared his teeth with a smile.

Give him his pelt, throw him to the ocean, and forget the lot of them. But escape would mean he had lost, and his father never lost anything. He held it until it broke and shattered like the world he created around him.

“I think another night in your old accommodations will help.”

“Certainly does wonders for the skin,” Jaskier quipped back.

His father’s nostrils flared, but he turned back to his work and left the guards to their work.

Jaskier happily turned from the room and began the march back down toward where the salt and wind waited happily for him.

* * *

Geralt glared up at the looming attempt of a castle, the shadows stretching across the land, and wondered how the fuck he was going to grab Jaskier and haul them both out of there without dying. Because it was all high windows and sights, and they wouldn’t last long dashing across the town, and the sea made it clear there was no invading by that path either.

He turned and glared at the two guards that stood by the entrance gate. Neither of them budged.

Geralt ground his teeth. He hated diplomacy.

“I’m here for the viscount’s son,” Geralt snapped at the nearest man.

“No one is entertaining visitors at this moment,” the man said, his voice as stiff as his back.

Geralt looked between the two of them, and then up at the castle.

All sight lines and no archers. The town was barely able to support itself, it couldn’t be overburdened with an army. Not even a regiment. 

He glanced over the soldier’s armor, rusted, patched, threadbare, and ill fitting. It had been handed down rather than freshly made. Maybe even in the same family.

Geralt reached out and slammed his fist into the first guard’s face, turning and slamming his elbow into the second’s head. They both dropped like rocks, blood seeping from the first’s nose. Geralt glanced around, but no alarm was raised.

All the mended armor in the world could not a warrior make. And propping two men up in it did not a castle defend.

Geralt grabbed a sword from the second man, it was poorly weighted but sharp enough to be threatening, and marched through the gate. 

If he had to storm the damn castle to free his friend then so be it. He owed Jaskier at least that much after all those years they traveled together. 

He assumed it was what friends did for one another.

He was going to do it for his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DM: there are two guards standing at the castle entrance.
> 
> Geralt: I try using diplomacy. 
> 
> *rolls dice*
> 
> Geralt: ... two.
> 
> DM: The guards tell you, politely, to fuck right off.
> 
> Jaskier: You don't even have any stats in diplomacy! WTF were you thinking!?
> 
> Geralt: *glares at Jaskier*
> 
> Geralt: I hit them in the face and take their swords.
> 
> *Geralt rolls dice*
> 
> Geralt: ... twenty.
> 
> DM: Congratulations, you've knocked out two men dressed in guard uniforms with no proper training and gotten a barely sharp, rusty sword.
> 
> Jaskier: Now come and save me! *munches on cheetos*
> 
> DM: Have fun storming the castle!
> 
> Geralt: I storm the castle to save the moron... twenty.
> 
> DM: You didn't need to roll for that. You were doing that.
> 
> And, in other news, man I want some puffy cheetos. They don't sell them in Japan, so I have been without for many years. It's rather sad, really. *munches on fried, puffed honey covered Japanese peanut snacks instead*


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier stumbled against the wall as the guard behind him shoved him. His leg was aching from the kick, but he was happy for the excuse to grab hold of the tapestry and _hold_. The guard grunted, and the first guard stopped, turning to see what was going on.

Jaskier just grinned, twisting and wrapping himself in the moldering piece of fabric. He coughed as it pulled away from the wall, dust and a festering black debris falling and coating him with filth. But mold was better than the nothing that he had for protection in his cell. Anything was better than spending another night wondering if the wind was going to wash his spirit out to sea without his body.

“Fuckin’ hell,” one of the guards grunted, grabbing hold of him and tugging.

The fabric along the pole tore, falling heavily, and Jaskier kept wrapping it around himself. They could roll him down the stairs and into his cell, as long as his prize came with him. The guard’s boot slammed into his side, and he was sent sprawling on the floor.

“Hold him still,” the second guard ordered, and Jaskier stared wide eyed as the sword came down near his nose, severing the fabric cocoon he had been building for himself. 

He struggled away from the blade, cursing as the fabric tore cleanly. His desperate blanket came apart around him, and Jaskier was hauled to his feet. He struggled, black grime smeared across his clothes, trying to escape into another wall. Anything for another chance at a little shelter from the night.

The the fists held him fast, and he was slammed gracelessly into a knee. His wind escaped him, leaving him gasping on the floor, coughing as a rough hand slammed into his back and pushed him down and sent him sprawling. 

Fuck it hurt.

The tapestry would have helped soften the blows, he thought as a foot thumbed into his thigh. 

He was hauled back onto his feet, his head hanging and blood dripping from his nose once again. The crimson salt made him spit, and he shoved himself forward, bowling into the guard in front of him and sending him off balance.

If they were going to put up a fight, then so was he. 

He jumped over the guard, keeping feet away from hands, and dashed down the corridor, slamming into walls and redirecting down side hallways. He had grown up running and hiding in these halls, he knew every stone and crevice by heart. He just needed to get out of sight, and then he could hide away.

Hide away long enough to search the castle, stone by stone, until he found his pelt.

The guards shouted behind him, anger rising in pitch, and Jaskier ran, panting, his ribs aching.

He had played in these hallways, but rarely had he had the misfortune of being hungry, thirsty, cold, and half beaten when he had done so. It put a strain on his childhood memories. 

He bounced down a side hallway that led close enough to the main entrance that, if he timed it right, he could lose his tail. Let them think he had escaped while he squirreled away in the hollow in the linen closet a storey above.

At least it would be warm and full of thick, clean sheets to wrap himself in. Dusty, but better than the black mold and mildew that coated him now.

He slammed into a solid wall that had never been there before, and blinked as he bounced back, his feet catching beneath him.

“Geralt,” he asked, not believing what he was seeing.

The guards behind him gave another shout, and Geralt stared past him, raising a sword, not his sword Jaskier noted curiously, and then pain flared through his left shoulder.

He coughed, bending forward and trying to contain the scream that was shaking through his ribs and trying to escape. Blood dripped on the stones, and Jaskier looked at the rose blooming across his shoulder.

That wasn’t supposed to be there. He never wore roses on his _shoulder_.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whined out of habit, the white haired witcher grabbing him and thrusting him behind his back, his sword raised as he growled at the two guards standing, stunned, in the hallway.

* * *

Geralt stalked through the endless maze of hallways, holding the sword at the ready. It would be more useful at beating than cutting, but it was a weapon none the less. But instead of a fight he found himself in cold, empty hallways.

But, at the very fringes, he could smell Jaskier. Deeply soaked into the stones, but there still. He had been here often at one point, and the walls had never quite forgotten him. But, under the old scent memories, there was a stronger one, a bloodier one, and it was that Geralt was trying to follow now.

But the stone and the molding tapestries were covering it up, and he could just barely catch the faint whiff of the sharp, iron spike that stank of blood, new and old. At some point someone had hurt his friend, had been stupid enough to hurt _his_ friend, and now he was going to have to step in and correct that.

He could demand answers from the bard later, after they were safely away from this frozen cage.

Footsteps rang toward him, dashing and panting, and Geralt suddenly found himself with an armful of Jaskier, and then the knife…

Geralt grit his teeth, his vision pulsing as he watched the red explode from the knife in Jaskier's left shoulder, and he hauled Jaskier to safety behind him. He had tried to do things pleasantly, with words.

His hand tightened around his sword.

Clearly blades were better at talking than he was.

He lunged forward, making quick work of the two guards, leaving them a red memory spread across the hallway, and then turned on his bard.

“It’s not that bad, really,” Jaskier said, wincing as he prodded the knife carefully.

“What the fuck are you covered in,” Geralt demanded, stopping the bard’s hand before he pulled out the knife and started bleeding harder.

The black smeared across the drab gray clothes Jaskier was wrapped in, the stench of salt so strong it stung Geralt’s nose. Had they thrown him in the sea and pulled him back out? He was damp, but so covered in soot and mold he couldn’t tell if he had been dry before or not.

“Whatever’s on the wall,” Jaskier shrugged, wincing as the knife moved.

“Stop that,” Geralt snapped, grabbing the bard carefully and hauling him back toward the entrance. 

The scent of fresh air was the sweetest thing he had ever smelled as they finally broke into sunlight. Jaskier was struggling in his arms, clawing weakly at his shoulders, but Geralt paid it no mind. As soon as they were away from this blighted coast then he could listen to Jaskier howl at being carried around like a child. What was important was that he was there to complain in the first place.

“Geralt,” Jaskier pleaded, and Geralt paused at the entrance as the stench of tears and agony began to drown his senses.

“They’ve beaten you bloody and put a knife in you,” Geralt snapped, “You’re not going back.”

“You don’t understand,” Jaskier sighed, flopping uselessly, blood dripping down his arms.

Geralt cursed, in his struggles the fool had dislodged the damn knife.

“He has my pelt, Geralt,” Jaskier whimpered, his eyes falling shut, “Need my pelt.”

Geralt growled, storming swiftly away from the castle with his unconscious friend bleeding in his arms. 

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guards: get him!
> 
> Jaskier: *marathon sprints*
> 
> Guards: *throw knife*
> 
> Geralt: Grr
> 
> Guards: Wait, that one is bigger... and angrier... *murdered to death*
> 
> Jaskier: *waves handkerchief goodbye*
> 
> And that, my friends, is why you do not put pointy things in a witcher's friend. For they are better at the pointy thing game than most people.
> 
> Jaskier: wait a minute, you sworded me again!
> 
> Me: shut up and enjoy being hauled away by tall, white haired, and brooding. The swording isn't permanent.
> 
> Jaskier: But I was sworded! AGAIN!


	8. Chapter 8

Geralt tended the tiny fire he had built in the front of the small alcove he had managed to find carved into the cliffs a few miles north of the town. He dared not build it higher in case they were searching for Jaskier. 

He glanced back, where he had tucked the bard and covered him with his cloak and spare furs. The bard was shivering, his face pale, and Geralt cursed. Whatever he had managed to coat himself had worked its way into the knife wound, and a fever was burning through him now.

But there was nothing he could do for that. Most of his potions would kill the man before he ever woke again. He had cleaned and bandaged the wound, and had him drink the human safe healing potions he had started carrying after the bard had followed him for more than a year.

Long enough for Geralt to know he got himself into more trouble than he could safely get himself out of without help. Long enough for Geralt to know he never even carried so much as bandages on his person.

How had the bard survived so long? The gods looked after fools, someone had once told him.

But Jaskier wasn’t a fool. He had managed to survive whatever had happened to him, and escape. Geralt had just been there long enough to haul him out the front door.

Jaskier whined, his eyes blinking open, and Geralt watched him carefully, approaching slowly.

Sometimes men in fever did not react as if they were from this world.

“Geralt,” Jaskier rasped, confused.

Geralt nodded, crouching next to his bard and putting the water skin carefully to his lips. He needed water more than anything else. Broth would not go astray either, but he had none and no way to make any.

“Thought I saw you,” Jaskier grinned sleepily, struggling to sit up.

“Careful,” Geralt muttered, trying to keep the sick man in his makeshift bed, “You have a knife wound and an infection.”

“Fucking hell, hurts like vinegar,” Jaskier hissed.

Geralt nodded, putting the water skin to the side. He wanted to get more in the other man, but he didn’t dare risk him getting sick. Too much water too fast after too long without was often worse than none at all.

“You didn’t happen to grab my pelt on the way out, did you,” Jaskier asked, leaning against Geralt’s side.

Geralt held him close, glad to notice the fever had lessened. The healing potions, weak as they were, were doing their job. Jaskier was not fragile, not in the least, but he had seen so many struck down by illness before their time. All it took was a bad fever, and all that was left was dirt on a grave.

“No,” Geralt muttered.

“Damn,” Jaskier cursed, drooping heavily against Geralt’s side, “I’ll need to go back.”

“No,” Geralt growled in response, glaring at his friend.

He could still smell blood lingering in the air, could remember tracing his way through stony corridors following the scent. He would not be allowing Jaskier to return, no matter what nonsense he was muttering about a damn animal skin.

No skin was worth his life.

“I have to, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, staring up wearily, “I can’t be free until I have my pelt.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Geralt snapped.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, “I’m a selkie. That pelt is my skin, he owns me as long as he has it.”

Ice flowed down Geralt’s spine at that. He wasn’t familiar with the creatures of the sea, he tried to avoid them wherever possible. But he had heard the myths, had read them in old books back in Kaer Morhen. Whoever possessed a selkie’s pelt possessed them. 

It was as good as any chain.

“Fuck,” Geralt growled.

They’d have to return and find it.

No, he would have to return and find it. He was not letting Jaskier back near that man ever again.

“I’d love to darling, but I find I’m a little under the weather here. Perhaps another time,” Jaskier grinned cheekily up at him.

Geralt rolled his eyes, carefully lowering the man back to his bed of fabric and furs, and went back to crouching by the fire.

“Get some sleep,” Geralt said, glad that Jaskier was at least able to joke.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was serious now, “My-”

“Get some sleep,” Geralt interrupted him, “We’ll talk in the morning.”

The silence echoed between them, but finally Jaskier shifted and his eyes drifted shut. Geralt let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, and wondered what they were going to do. He could haul Jaskier away, but the man would return every chance he got.

He would keep coming back until he had his pelt back, safely.

How had his father gotten his pelt in the first place? Clearly he hadn’t had it when Jaskier had been wandering the continent. Had that been what had lured Jaskier out onto the beach in the first place? 

No, he hadn’t been bound until the tree in the cliff. He must have hidden it there. The fool, he should have kept in on him, safe.

Geralt snorted. Between the both of them they were never safe. He would have to help his friend find a new hiding spot for it after they left Lettenhove. No one would dare search Kaer Morhen, it would be easy enough to hide it away there over the winter.

* * *

Jaskier’s eyes opened as the morning sun slit through the entrance of the little cave. A burrow, really. Low and sandy, the stone pitted by angry winds. Jaskier was surprised that no one had found them, though he doubted the town had searched during the night.

Or, perhaps, his father thought they had run landward. 

Jaskier rose, testing his left shoulder and hand. His hand was sore, but healed. His shoulder tender and ached to move, but there was pink flesh over a wound that should be pus filled and rancid. He smiled, looking over at the witcher.

He was half surprised the man was here at all.

The last words they had exchanged still stank in his memory.

Geralt, if he noticed he was observed or not, didn’t move from where he was meditating at the mouth of the cave, the remains of a small fire burned to charcoal beside him. He must be freezing, exposed as he was. 

Jaskier pulled the cloak from around his shoulders and carried it toward the other man. He may have cursed him for their time spent together, but they had been… he considered Geralt his friend, even if Geralt did not see it that way. 

Geralt’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed Jaskier’s wrist, the cloak falling to the sand between them.

“You need your rest,” Geralt said, his voice low as he searched Jaskier’s face.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier insisted, “Thank you.”

Geralt grunted, picking up and handing the cloak back to Jaskier. Jaskier’s hands, tense, took it hesitantly. He didn’t know what to do now. 

He had known what to do with his father. Had known to pull strings until anger flared through the older man. Had known that anger would save his life. But now, with Geralt?

Jaskier knew Geralt would never physically hurt him. He may be an ass, but he was better than that. But the words they had left on, the things that Geralt had said. They left no doubt as to where things stood between them.

And only made him question as to why the witcher was here now, tending his wounds. 

His gaze wavered across Geralt’s face until they caught sight of the sea.

The morning surf crashed against the sand, white froth pulling up against the kelp and wood that littered the shore, stranded here after miserable years of travels. Where had it all come from, he had asked his mother once.

Gifts from far off lands that have nothing more to give, she had answered him.

Geralt’s hand tightened on his wrist as he pulled lightly, tearing Jaskier’s eyes from the consuming thoughts of the ocean.

“Water never caught you before,” Geralt said.

Jaskier smiled weakly at that.

How to explain that he had never been so thoroughly broken as by the man before him before? That he had stood proud his entire life against everything that had ever been thrown against him. Had known that he was worth something, that he was worth everything, no matter what anyone said to him with words or fists.

Until this man. This stoic, angry man, with white hair and golden eyes, had broken him completely with his words. Had done what no one had done in all his life; had made Jaskier feel like he deserved to be tossed aside. To be less than what he was.

One moment, that's all it took. One moment and he broke, shattering completely, and the ocean rushed in and consumed him whole. 

“Blessings can’t be taken back,” Jaskier apologized.

Geralt’s face froze, his grip as tight as ever, and Jaskier swallowed nervously.

He wanted the ocean. He needed his freedom.

He didn’t want his heart to ache, torn between running and staying.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, trying to ignore the tears blurring his vision, “It’s okay. We’ve both moved on.”

Geralt’s shoulders fell, but his grasp remained firm.

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” the witcher growled.

Jaskier just nodded, letting himself be pulled down and pulled in tight next to the witcher.

“You’re my friend,” Geralt insisted, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier nodded dumbly, curling into his friend’s warmth as he continued to watch the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: ... I'm sorry.
> 
> *Jaskier shrugs*
> 
> Jaskier: sometimes words are too little too late.
> 
> *Geralt's heart breaks as he clings to his friend*
> 
> *Jaskier continues to long for something else*


	9. Chapter 9

Jaskier sat numbly, held close by Geralt’s arm, as they watched the sun drift higher in the sky. He was torn between his longing for freedom, and the flame he had carried for the other man. He didn’t know which was stronger, but the pull was tearing him asunder as he sat there, trapped between worlds.

He was supposed to escape. He had ran and ran and ran, ran back to where he had hid his freedom.

And now he was back where he had started. He shivered, and Geralt pulled the cloak tighter around him.

“Is the pelt in the castle,” Geralt finally asked, breaking the salt laced silenced that lingered between the two of them.

Jaskier shrugged.

“Probably. He doesn’t leave, he won’t destroy it.”

Geralt grunted.

“What happens if he destroys it?”

“I die,” Jaskier said simply, his gaze never leaving the sea.

Geralt froze, his arm tightening around him, pulling him closer as if he could protect him.

Jaskier leaned in, welcoming the warmth. He didn’t bother to correct himself; he wouldn’t die, physically. His heart would still beat, his lungs would still breath. But his soul would be shattered. He would be cursed to the human body, unable to escape to the ocean, unable to think of anything but a world he could never have. He would become a walking doll, hollow and lifeless, going through the motions until something finally, fatally, freed him from his torture.

“How many guards,” Geralt asked, and Jaskier could feel the wheels ticking away in his mind.

“Maybe ten, or fifteen,” Jaskier paused, taking count.

He had only ever seen the same two guards while he had been held. It was a little unusual, but not abnormally so. Not in an area as tiny and as run down as Lettenhove.

“Our strength was in trading and raiding, not the land,” Jaskier explained.

Their strength had been trading and raiding, but it had been squandered by his grandfather, and his father had held what little power they had together with tight, brutal fingers. Another generation, his generation, was happy to let it all fall into the ocean and be wiped away with the tide. 

There was nothing left for the people here. The land barely produced, the waters had been fished dry. It would be better if they all moved on, traveled to where there would be food for their mouths elsewhere on the continent.

“We’ll go for the pelt tomorrow,” Geralt decided, the sun echoing near a cold noon, “We can hide it away safely enough in Kaer Morhen once we return.”

Jaskier froze, his eyes finally breaking away from the howling scene to stare at the other man, his eyes wide in shock. Had he traded one master for another? Would Geralt force him into the same depraved slavery that he was attempting to rescue him from now?

“It’ll be safe there,” Geralt tried to reassure him, “I promise.”

Jaskier shivered, trapped in arms he couldn’t pull away from, the ocean calling him and he unable to sing back.

Geralt should have tossed him off the mountain instead of just maiming him with his words.

* * *

Geralt swallowed thickly as he smelled the despair rolling off of his friend. Any tears were lost in the smell of the ocean, but he could feel his agony. Would his father really destroy his pelt just to prevent his son from escaping his grasp?

Was he really that much of a monster?

But Geralt could still smell the blood and see the bruises that marred Jaskier’s flesh.

No one who would do that to their own child was anything but monstrous. And who was he, but a slayer of monsters?

Jaskier finally drew away, walking back to the pile of fabrics at the back of the cave and collapsing into them, face toward the wall. But Geralt could still see his shoulders shaking. He was crying, and Geralt turned away, glaring out at the open sea.

He had always known he was a monster, and now it was confirmed. For he, too, had hurt his bard in ways he had never intended.

Fuck.

He watched him carefully, watched the silent shaking still as he slipped back to sleep, his body still exhausted from his wounds, before he slipped out into the bright, frosty sunlight. Roach was pulling at a clump of sea grass down the beach, happy to explore, and he whistled for her quietly. 

They needed water, and food, of which he had a source of neither. 

“Watch him,” Geralt whispered, rubbing her neck, “Keep him here.”

Roach nickered, butting him in the chest, and Geralt smiled. She was right, he had been a fool. But he could make amends. He would tear down the lord’s castle around his ears to get that pelt, and then Jaskier would be safe.

Safe with him. He could recover in full over the winter at Kaer Morhen. It would do the old fortress good to hear a lute echoing through cracked stones, and surely it would bring a smile to Ciri’s face. A smile that she so desperately needed these days, after all she had been through.

Sand shifted behind him, and he turned to see Jaskier standing there, his gaze hollow, still wrapped in Geralt’s black cloak.

“It’s just for a little bit,” Geralt tried to explain, “We need food, and water. Roach will stay here and protect you, I promise.”

Jaskier’s eyes darted between him, the horse, and the sea.

Geralt took a step closer, and then another, pulling the other man’s eyes away from the rolling waves. He searched them, glad to see there was still a spark of life there, a fire that hadn’t managed to drown yet.

“I don’t,” Jaskier’s voice was weak, but firm, his face set in stone, “I’m coming with you.”

“Tomorrow,” Geralt reassured him, “We’ll fetch your pelt tomorrow. For now, sleep. Please.”

Jaskier’s eyes never wavered, and, for once, Geralt was completely unsure of what to do. This man had been his friend, his only friend, for decades. He had taken that friendship for granted, had assumed that it would always be there, in the background, supporting him through his hellish life.

But it wasn’t until it was gone, until he reached out and shoved it away, that he found how much he missed it. How he longed for the support that had been there, freely and happily given. And how much he regretted his part in pushing his friend away. 

Jaskier was there now, standing, strong and true, before him. But there was a distance there Geralt couldn’t begin to fathom how to overcome. How did he bridge a canyon he had created? How did he undo the damage he had done so rashly, hurting and in pain from Yennefer’s rejection?

Why did that pain feel so very much the same?

Geralt knew that he was shit at words. He grunted his way through life with an eloquence that only Jaskier had ever truly understood. His only true friend. He would understand his actions. Could understand everything he did and know what he meant.

So Geralt leaned forward, hesitant, and captured Jaskier’s salt coated lips in a gentle kiss.

I’m sorry, Geralt hoped his bard understood, you mean so much to me.

And he turned, walking calmly down the beach back toward town, afraid to look back at Jaskier. Afraid to see if his bard understood him or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geralt kisses Jaskier*
> 
> Geralt: all better, right?
> 
> *Jaskier shakes his head*
> 
> Jaskier: it's really, really not.
> 
> *Roach and Yen sob into handkerchiefs in the background while they down wine*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning the tags have been updated. The next chapter won't be graphic, but bad things will happen.

Jaskier shivered as he watched Geralt storm down the beach, the wind catching his hair and sending it floating around him in a snowy haze.

How could he do that? How could he do that to him!? After so many years. So many years he had done everything to bring attention to him, and now, _now_ was when he chose to… to…

Jaskier straightened his back, refusing to sink to his knees and sob in the sand like some wayward maiden from a ballad. He would not give in. He was stronger than that. He had the blood of salt and the sea flowing through his veins.

He had escaped his father’s hell not once but twice, had educated himself at Oxenfurt, had traveled the world for over twenty years, was a bard of great renown, was welcomed in courts across the continent with open arms. He had lived more in a lifetime than twenty men could in a hundred.

Jaskier was more than a simple person that collapsed into a heap over a simple kiss.

Especially not a kiss that had been waited for all these years, in vain.

Jaskier let himself take a shuddering breath, let the sob rip through him, and then turned toward the sea. The sea had never broken him, the sea had never rejected him. It had waited there, patiently, lapping at the rocks as presents rolled across the shores. It had waited for him all these years, waited for him to come home.

His heart broke a little to think he was as cruel as Geralt to leave the ocean waiting, but the ocean understood. Had understood his need to see the land before he left it all behind.

Roach nuzzled at his side, drawing Jaskier’s gaze away from the ocean. He swayed for a moment, keeping time with the waves, before he looked at the horse. He hadn’t seen her since the mountain, hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye as he left. And he felt bad for it.

She had been a good horse. He sighed, rubbing his face against hers and breathing her in. She smelled of fresh grass and wind and forests with pleasant streams. The better part of Geralt’s travels, their travels, as they had traipsed across the continent.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered, leaning into her and letting her sun soaked coat warm him, “I should have at least said goodbye.”

Roach nickered, and Jaskier smiled.

All was forgiven. She knew. She knew he would have never left so fast if he hadn’t had good reason. If he hadn’t been driven away.

The words still ached in his heart. Geralt’s one blessing had been for him to be gone. 

So why was he here now?

Why the kiss?

“He was never very good with words,” Jaskier muttered, looking up and taking a halting step back, “And he’s even worse with actions. Swords he knows. But the rest? 

“I don’t even want to guess what he was trying for. I can’t stay. He made that clear back then. Our journey together is over.”

No matter how much he wanted for it to never be.

Roach whiffed at him, and he smiled.

She had been a good friend all those years. No matter how angry, she had remained true.

Jaskier watched the ocean for a moment longer, the tides low. 

The tide was low. A smile crept along his face as he looked out over the beckoning sea. The benefit of being a wild child along the coast was knowing your way around the ocean. And know all the little secrets every little hiding place had.

Including the tiny little cave that exited into the old castle. It was barely more than a wet gap between stones, but he had wiggled through them in and out without discovery often enough times growing up. There had always been more than enough room then, though it might be a tight squeeze now.

But he could slip in without notice, and search for his pelt unmolested. Not a soul would ever even know he was there.

He started walking, shedding Geralt’s cloak on the sand, it would only get in his way, and pulling off his boots. The sand rose up between his toes, and he sighed in bliss. 

Jaskier had missed this feeling. Missed feeling like he finally belonged somewhere. 

Missed having the knowledge that every step he took was the right step.

Roach nickered at him, and he turned back sadly.

She couldn’t come where he was going. Not into the water, not to the cave, and certainly not into the castle.

She nipped at his shirt, pulling him back toward the little camp Geralt had set up, but Jaskier stood firm and shook his head. 

“He’s my past,” Jaskier tried to explain, “I need to keep moving toward my future.”

Roach looked at him mournfully, letting go of his shirt.

“I know girl, I know,” Jaskier rubbed her neck, “I love you too. I’ll miss you.”

Roach nuzzled at his chest, and he nodded, letting a few tears stream down his face.

“Goodbye. Take care of him for me. He doesn’t have anyone else.”

Jaskier turned, the wind in his face, and began a loping run, his footsteps disappearing in the surf as he dashed toward the castle. 

He didn’t care if he had to kill his father, he was getting his life back.

* * *

Geralt hauled the sack of food and water with ease. He had thought he would have had to part with most of his coin, witchers rarely paid less than twice the price, but had been pleasantly surprised to have nearly everything given to him for free.

It was stale and going to rot, the innkeeper’s wife had muttered in a whisper, handing over a cheese that was decidedly still good. Geralt had nodded, accepting the items gratefully, especially the bandages. It seemed that everyone loved Jaskier no matter where he went, even when he returned home.

He stopped as he saw Roach standing on the beach, gazing at him with sad doe eyes.

The bag slipped from his fingers as he ran toward the small cave, only to find it empty. Had they found him? Had they dragged him away while he had been stupid enough to leave him alone?

Roach nickered and nuzzled his back, and Geralt could feel the apology.

No, no one had taken Jaskier from him. Jaskier had left on his own.

Sick and injured, his foolish bard had run off. He had gone back to the castle, alone, for his pelt. His father was going to string him up and skin him a second time in his anger. 

Geralt growled, grabbing his steel sword, and then turned toward Roach.

He didn’t have time to saddle her, but they didn’t have far to ride. Roach gave a whinny, and they were off, riding fast as fury bled through Geralt’s veins. 

And, when they got there… when they got there…

Geralt grit his teeth as he thought about what he was going to do to that old man when he found him. He had already shed Jaskier’s blood, had shed it without a care. And now Geralt was going to free Jaskier and this entire region of his reign. 

Because monsters like the Viscount of Lennenhove were all the same, no matter what skin they wore.

And Geralt has sworn his life to wiping monsters from the continent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier sings happily as he clenches a knife*: I’m going to get my pelt back!
> 
> *Geralt growls as he brandishes his sword*: I’m going to get my bard back!
> 
> *Viscount of Lettenhove looks up from his ledgers*: why do I have the sudden urge to flee?


	11. Chapter 11

Jaskier grunted, hauling himself through the tiny crevice, his hands slipping across the moss that covered the damp stones. He didn’t remember there ever being moss, just the sharp, painful rocks waiting to claw across his skin the moment he took a wrong step. Decades of no one slipping down the tiny escape shaft had let it grow a cushion he welcomed with open arms.

He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to survive the climb with skin still attached without that moss.

His left shoulder ached, and he could feel the wet heat of blood blossoming across his shirt and dripping down his back. It was going to make it harder for him if he couldn’t use his shoulder, but not impossible. He just needed to be more careful. He’d cut some lengths from the linen closet and bind the wound.

It didn’t need to be permanent. Just long enough to find his pelt and escape. He could worry about injuries once he was in the ocean.

Once he was free.

A last heave and Jaskier felt the stone crevice above his head carefully. He should come up in the back of a linen closet, long forgotten and left to molder, in one of the smaller rooms toward the bottom of the castle. It wasn’t a cell, but it was near enough that it must have once been a commander’s room. Someone important enough to rank their own bed, but involved with actual work.

It must have been carved into the rock centuries before, and then forgotten as the strength of Lettenhove had waned. Jaskier had wondered about who had lived here as a child, but neither he nor Lily had ever found any proof of their existence.

Maybe it had never been inhabited at all, just another room that was made to show that it could be, and then left behind.

Jaskier pulled himself up, trying to shake the moss and mud back down into the little crack, and froze when he felt hard steel on the back of his neck.

“Your forget,” his father’s voice was iron in the darkness, “That I knew every stone of this castle long before you were born.”

Jaskier swallowed, standing still, crouched over stones that could be his escape. But he would never be able to lower himself into the escape route fast enough. A single missed step and he would break his neck, or worse, be stuck, unable to escape. At the mercy of his father for rescue.

His father whose blade had cut into his flesh, letting a trickle of blood begin to creep down his neck.

“Up,” his father commanded, taking a step back.

Jaskier stood carefully, surprised to find that there was no longer a closet around him. The door must have been removed and the shelves taken out. His father had known where he would come from. His father had been waiting. 

He took a step forward, following his father in the darkness.

His father had been too clever for him.

“To my office,” the old man said, his voice still steady, “We still have much to discuss.”

Jaskier nodded and stepped in front of his father, old memories of careful steps guiding his way down hallways and up stairs. He frowned as he noticed the lack of lights. No candles burning idly, no fires lit to relieve the chill of the ocean. Not another person wandering across their path.

The castle was empty, Jaskier realized. They were alone. Not a single guard or servant to step in and help, or raise in the alarm.

He tripped over his toes, and found the tip of a sword pressing insistently into his back. His father let the silence speak for him as Jaskier felt more blood pooling across his skin. The old man had very little left to hold on to, and Jaskier was damned if he was going to let his life be the last thing he destroyed.

He continued forward, his shoulder screaming, leaving bloody footprints smeared across the stones with every step.

He should have waited for Geralt, he realized. Should have taken his chances with the white haired witcher. At least the other man wouldn’t have put a blade in his back as he sought to control him.

There was a single candle flickering in the room, and Jaskier stood on the carpet in front of the desk out of habit. Where he had been ordered to stand every time he had been dragged here, always in trouble, throughout his childhood. The spot was more his home than any bed had ever been.

The pain of the blow against his shoulder sent him sprawling, a howl escaping his mouth as the wound ripped open and Jaskier could feel the blood pouring out. Thick drops of it smeared across the threadbare carpet, and Jaskier blinked curiously as the faded threads regained their former, glistening color.

“Everything you touch you destroy,” his father snapped, grabbing Jaskier’s right hand and slamming it down on the ground, fingers spread.

“I told you that the day your mother left,” Jaskier watched in horror as his father grabbed a knife from the desk, “The day you declared you would continue singing,” the old man crouched, and Jaskier began to struggle, “And I’m telling it to you again now.

“All you are is nothing, but you’re still my heir. And my heir you will always be,” the knife came down and Jaskier howled as he watched his little finger jump across the carpet.

“So, it will be better for everyone if you remember that as well,” Jaskier’s eyes went wide as his father grabbed a container of salt from his desk and poured it over his bleeding stump, “And forget this nonsense of singing. You are of Lettenhove, and of Lettenhove you will remain.”

Jaskier watched his blood tarnishing the salt, pinking the crystals until they sparked red, his hand screaming in agony for a feeling that would never be there again. His finger was gone. His father had cut off his finger.

He whimpered, tears streaming down his face as he continued to bleed across the carpet.

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed, not even caring what he agreed to.

He would do it. He would do all of it. Anything. 

Anything to make sure the knife didn’t find another finger to tear from his body.

“Good boy,” his father smiled passively, crouching down next to him, “We’ll begin with the area’s finance. Find your feet, can’t be lazy on the job.”

Jaskier grit his teeth, his breath coming in gasps, as he hauled himself away from the carpet and stood, swaying, in front of his father.

Blood continued to splash against salt.

* * *

Geralt stared down at the crevice in the rocks, his chest heaving. The castle had been as dark as the ocean that he could hear roaring beneath his feet. Deserted to a mouse, but still he could smell the fresh blood.

He had followed its scent. Had paced quietly down corridor after corridor, circling down the stairs, ever deeper into the labyrinth, so certain that his father would be holding him trapped in a cell. Held prisoner and tortured in a cell.

But now he stood here, staring at the tiny chasm that opened below, and cursed himself.

He had followed the blood the wrong damn way.

An anguished howl echoed through the stones, and Geralt stared up.

He recognized that voice. Had known that voice for years. Had heard every lilting tune and amused laugh it could offer. Had been sung to sleep with calming hums at campfires.

Jaskier’s voice cried out, and Geralt turned and _ran_.

He took the stairs in stride, following the bloody steps higher and higher, twisting through stone passageways. Thankful to Jaskier for leaving such a trail, cursing that it was blood that he had laid it in. 

Geralt ran, the scent of blood drowning out his senses the closer he got. 

Jaskier’s voice had given out, had stopped short, and Geralt’s heart had skipped a beat. Was his bard still alive? Had his father gone too far, plunged the sword too deep? Was that pained scream, the one that would haunt his nightmares until his last days, to be the last he heard of his bard’s voice?

Was he too late?

A light flickered under the edge of a door, and Geralt grit his teeth, running toward it.

He wasn’t too late, he tried to reassure himself. He could hear the hitched breaths of a man in pain through the door.

He could still smell Jaskier’s blood, fresh, alive.

He tore the door open, his eyes wild as they fell on the scene. 

Jaskier, his face pale, drenched in blood, swaying on his feet. A puddle building beneath him as his father sat at a desk, books strewn open. A bloody knife lay before him.

Geralt let loose his grip on the wolf that howled within him, snarling and letting him take a step forward, teeth gnashing at the thought of what he was going to do to the old man. He was going to take a pound of flesh for every drop of blood he had spilled. He was going to skin him at low tide and watch the salt water lap at his wounds as it rose.

He was going to make him pay tenfold for every moment of misery he had wished upon his bard.

Geralt froze as Jaskier caught his arm, blood seeping through the shirt, and pleaded with sad eyes.

Geralt swallowed back a whimper as he realized the hand only had four fingers.

The Viscount of Lettenhove had castrated his bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: my hand!?
> 
> Me: your father isn't-
> 
> Jaskier: you had him start cutting off pieces of _my hand_!?
> 
> Me: he's a terrible-
> 
> Jaskier: the point remains, _my hand_!
> 
> Me: ...
> 
> *Geralt continues to sharpen sword*


	12. Chapter 12

Jaskier held Geralt’s arm firmly, his hand slippery with blood, and shook his head. He couldn’t let him do this. He couldn’t let his father take that from the white haired man. Couldn’t let him become the man killing monster everyone always accused him of.

Jaskier swallowed, black pulsing at the edges of his vision, and took a step forward.

The carpet squelched, but he ignored it. He ignored the feeling of salt and blood blooming between his toes, and the rough fibers of the old threadbare carpet. He ignored the world around him as he picked up the knife on the desk.

Time continued ticking on, and his father glared at him.

He didn’t think he would hurt him, Jaskier realized suddenly. His father wasn’t afraid. His father had spend his life being nigh on untouchable, and now that he was staring his own death in the face, he couldn’t recognize it.

His father wasn’t afraid because the man had never known anything but greed. 

“You destroy everything you touch,” Jaskier rasped, trying to find his voice.

His father said nothing.

“You told me that as a young child, when I broke a toy. And when mother left. And every time I did something you never approved of. But those words weren’t for me,” Jaskier’s stance faltered, and Geralt caught him.

Jaskier nodded his thanks. 

He had the support of a friend. That was more than his father had ever had, and he could see the rage building in the old man’s blue eyes. He saw what he had never had, and he _wanted_ it. But he would never have it.

The grip felt wrong in his hand. Off kilter. Unbalanced.

Oh what a small finger meant, what it did. He had never thought about it, and now it would always be there, tingling in the back of his mind. That reminder that he was never to be physically whole again. His father hadn’t taken his music from him, but he had ensured that he would never be forgotten.

That Jaskier would remember every time he ever used his right hand again. His father had left that scalding mark on his soul. Another attempt at ownership.

Jaskier stepped around the desk, Geralt still behind him, watching warily. His sword at the ready.

But it was all for show. His father had no more weapons. Had only his tongue to lash.

“They were yours. Your mark. Your curse,” Jaskier hissed, his hands shaking.

Did he stab him? Did he punch him? He had hated his father, loathed him his entire life, but he had never truly thought of raising a hand to him. He had never thought he would have the ability. He remember Lily, though. Remember the words she had hissed while curled up next to him in the darkness.

Remembered the tortures she wished upon him. All the plans she had, all the knives she would wield.

Jaskier swallowed.

His sister wasn’t here now, but her words were. Her words were with him, faint memories hissing across time, reminding him of the old man’s cruelty.

And reminding him how satisfying it would be to make him stop, and suffer.

Jaskier wasn’t strong enough to hold him down, didn’t think he had it in him to flay him or pluck out his eyes or rip out his tongue, but he had a knife.

And he was strong enough to stab him.

The knife sank into flesh, pinning his father’s hand to the desk. Blood pooled out, spilling across his precious ledgers and books, and Jaskier watched his father quaver and shake. He didn’t call out, he didn’t scream in pain, but his eyes were wide and he was shaking.

Jaskier grinned.

“Everything you touch you destroy,” Jaskier panted, his knees shaking in effort, “Every moment you’ve lived, every breath you’ve taken, has been a curse on the world. No one has loved you, no one will mourn you, and no one will remember you after the curse of your life is lifted.”

His father smiled at that, his grin wide, teeth gnashing as he stayed seated in his chair.

“And you will always be mine,” the man growled, “Feet on land, never for the ocean!”

He was still seated on his chair. Jaskier blinked.

It wasn’t the chair that had dominated the room in his childhood. It wasn’t the sturdy beast of dark wood, polished clean by years of work, holding this man aloft. It was different.

It had fabric. And fur.

Jaskier’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled forward, pushing the old man aside and ignoring his howls as the knife ripped through his hand. He ignored the pleasure of hearing his pain to look at the chair.

A back and a seat.

Covered in seal fur.

His fur.

His sister’s fur.

The old man dominated them, here, as a seat. The cruelty. Tears sprang to his eyes as he grasped at the chair, blood slipping across wood and smearing through the pelts.

He needed to set his sister free.

He needed to be free.

Jaskier was pulled aside, gentle, and he looked up as Geralt pulled a knife from his side and tore through the threads that bound the pelts in place with gentle care. Jaskier almost sobbed as the furs tumbled into his arms.

First his sister’s, and then his.

He pulled them to his face, breathing in the scent of his mother, and the ocean, and everything he had never had and longed for, and then looked up. Geralt was standing over him, his eyes sad, and Jaskier nodded his thanks.

“Jaskier, I,” Geralt’s voice quavered, and the bard stared at him.

He had never heard Geralt like this before, nearly afraid. 

His father was still struggling, the knife cutting through his hand as he worked to get free, and Geralt turned on him with a growl. A quick strike and his father was silent, still pinned, draped across a mass of bloody papers.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt sighed.

Jaskier stood on shaky feet, and leaned against his witcher. They had traveled together, seen the world together, gotten into trouble and back out again together. They had been friends.

Tears dotted at the edges of his vision.

No matter how angry he was, he couldn’t wipe that all out. Couldn’t make that disappear with a wish. They had had a life together. And Jaskier missed it. He missed what could have been if they had both been a little stronger. If they had both been a little better at being.

If the world hadn’t broken them too hard before they had first met.

Jaskier kissed him, slow and sadly, the taste of blood and salt lingering in his mouth as he pulled away.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, clutching the pelts to his chest as he backed toward the door, “Goodbye.”

And then he ran, letting the ocean longing collapse over him, rising and drowning all else. His steps tumbling as he collided with tables and walls, stumbling toward the gate. Any exit. Any place that would lead him to the ocean.

To his freedom.

* * *

Geralt stared at the empty doorway, his chest heaving, and then took a step forward. He ran, following the blood and the echoes of his bard as he dashed from the crumbling castle.

Dashed across rocks and down cliffs, and dashed across the sand. Watched as bloody clothes rolled in the surf, and ran into the ocean after them.

He didn’t want to let go. He wanted this ache in his chest to stop, and wanted to wrap his arms around his bard and promise that it would be better this time. That they could be safe, together.

He promised.

Shivering, standing to his knees in the rolling surf, Geralt watched the ocean. Watched for a sign that his bard was still there. Watched to see if… if…

Geralt stumbled back, collapsing to his knees and watching the night begin to fade toward day. But there was nothing.

A selkie would be stopped by nothing to reach the sea once they have found their pelt.

But Jaskier had paused, just a moment, to say goodbye. 

It was more than he had deserved.

Tears slipped down Geralt’s face as he saw a small head bobbing in the distance. A seal in the twilight of morning. And then it was gone in a splash, diving out toward the open waters.

Geralt sat there, watching the world spin through purples toward a sunny gold, but the head never reappeared. 

Geralt nodded, rising to his feet, his legs numb, and stumbled back toward the beach, catching Jaskier’s bloodied chemise as it danced in the waves at his feet. He held it, staring at the intricate embroidery that Jaskier had preferred over the more sturdy clothes that Geralt wore, and sighed.

Jaskier wasn’t meant for this world, this life.

His bard had never been meant for him.

Geralt held the chemise tight, and started his hike up the cliffside back toward the castle, where Roach was staring down at him.

He was a witcher.

And the Path still called to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaskier sobs and blubbers in Geralt's arms*
> 
> *Geralt glares*
> 
> Me: what!? I promised no character death, you got no character death! And Jaskier barely got sworded!
> 
> Jaskier: it's so mean, it's so cruel!
> 
> *Geralt nods in agreement*
> 
> Jaskier: I'll never wear any lovely colored doublets ever again if I'm a seal!
> 
> *record scratches and everyone stares at Jaskier*
> 
> Jaskier: and no lace, and no fashions for the different times of year, and no themed parties...
> 
> *tosses plate of caramel cookies at Jaskier's head and storms out the door*
> 
> And so, my dear readers, we come to the end. I hope you've all enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Wash your hands, wear masks, stay home if you can, practice social distancing if you can, and stay safe out there.


End file.
